We consume our pain, the taste bittersweet, a silence thick as molasses consumed piece by piece.
The echoes thrumming, where adhesion to the sweet and sour lives. Running fingers along the edges of obscured thoughts...
What solace lies in the dusky warmth of irony, when resolutions entwine with contradictions like streetlights battling dusk?
A mirror glimpsed, perched above the fading ledger of disappointments; promises to ourselves opaque as clouds.